


I Didn't Know I Was Broken (Til I Wanted to Change)

by DykeDarylDixon



Series: Music Challenge [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Awesome!Dean, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Grief, Panic Attack, Prompt Fic, Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DykeDarylDixon/pseuds/DykeDarylDixon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off the prompt: Imagine revealing to Dean that you are suicidal, and finding out that he also suffers from depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Didn't Know I Was Broken (Til I Wanted to Change)

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. Title taken from 'I Wanna Get Better' by Bleachers.

I’ve always been a little different from everyone. Well, make that a _lot_ different. For one, I was raised a Hunter. I got to see a darker side of the world, the monsters that only exist in faery tales for most people. I’ve never had many friends; Mom moved us around at least once a month, so I didn’t have time to form a bond with anyone. I have what she called an ‘attitude’. I don’t like people, and have never tried to hide that in any way. My personal motto is  _say it like I see it_ , which unsurprisingly has made me few friends and too many enemies to count.

That’s not the worst part, though. Ever since seventh grade, I've wanted to kill myself.  I remember sitting alone in the last stall of a bathroom, staring down at my hands and wishing that I hadn’t been born. I didn’t cry, and the thought didn’t scare me. I saw it as fact. I was going to die, and my death would be at my own hands.

Everything got worse when Mom died during my junior year of school. I was already nineteen, and thank God I didn’t have to worry about being put in the foster program; I was still in highschool cos I’d been held back in third and fifth grades due to several nosy teachers getting concerned about how my frequent absences and even more frequent moves from school to school would affect my learning. Strangely enough, being at Mom's funeral gave me the opportunity to let myself tell another person that I was suicidal.

I’ll be the first to admit that I was drunk off my ass that night. Three sheets to the wind, downing beer after beer as if it could fill the void my mom had left in my life. Ellen Harvelle was throwing a wake for Mom at the Roadhouse, and every Hunter who’d known her- and quite a few who hadn’t- were crammed into the bar and milled around the parking lot. I don’t think I’ve ever received so many awkward pats on the back and unwanted hugs. “Julie was a great Hunter.” “I worked with Jules on a case a few years back, don’t you remember me?” “I hope you stay in this line of work, make your mama proud.”

There wasn’t really anyone there near my age, except Ellen’s daughter, Jo. At least she seemed to respect my need for space, only coming over to me to hand me another beer as soon as I drained the one in my hand. She was busy anyways, bringing cold drinks out of the back and fending off unwanted advances from drunk Hunters twice her age or more.

People were already starting to pair off, either going to one of the Roadhouse’s back rooms or out to their vehicles. There’s an odd dance between life and death in the Hunter community. Can’t have one without the other, I suppose.  Since you never know when you’re gonna die, you might as well live it up while you can, Mom had told me on multiple occasions.

I’d found a quiet- well, relatively quiet- corner, and let the wall at my back support me. My knees wanted to give out; I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t let myself. I couldn’t let them see my tears, my absolute heartbreak at the loss of the only person who truly loved me and accepted me, flaws and all. Even though Mom hadn’t known my darkest secret, I think she still would have been there for me if I’d been totally honest with her. I couldn’t show weakness to other Hunters. I’d learned from a young age that to show emotion was tantamount to throwing blood in a tank full of sharks. They hunt predators- and are their very own sort of predator. The vulnerable get weeded out quick.

To stall the rising panic, that fear I’d be cast out of the only community I’d ever know, I watched the people who’d gathered to celebrate Mom’s life. About an equal mix of men and women, all with the same hard edge to their eyes. Most had weapons clearly displayed on their hips or in shoulder holsters, from pistols to machetes to sawed off shotguns probably loaded with salt rounds.

The flow of traffic in and out the door had started to slow. They were making their choice whether to stay the night at the Roadhouse or try and make it make to their hotels. So I immediately noticed when a new pair of men strutted through the door. Only one of them strutted, actually, his bowlegs giving him a unique gait. His taller companion followed right behind him, his head down and right hand on Bowleg’s shoulder, his left arm in a sling.

Jo swung back by at that instant. “Need another beer, kid?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I was slurring my words pretty good by now, I knew, but I didn’t care. If I didn’t stay good and drunk and unable to think straight and _remember_ , then I was likely to do something fatal, something permanent to myself.

She smiled sadly at me, her eyes kind as she pressed an ice cold Budweiser into my hand. “Let me know if you need another, okay?” I nodded and she slid back into the crowd, leaving me alone. I looked around for the two men again; something about them intrigued me, but I’d lost them in the crowd. I tried to shrug off the feeling, only to almost _sense_ a person walk up to me.  Mom had taught me to always listen to my instincts, those little warnings that pop up and can save my life.

“Hey there, sweetheart. Can I get you a drink?” 

I choked on the mouthful of beer I’d been about to swallow when I realized he was addressing _me_. It was one of the two men who’d just walked through the door- Bowlegs, the slightly shorter one, with a buzz cut and bright, perceptive eyes. He gave me a quick up-and-down glance, from my worn leather work boots to faded and ripped jeans all the way up past the gold locket around my neck that I’d taken off Mom’s body before I’d given her a Hunter’s burial.

“Um, sorry, but…”

“Oh, you already taken?” His smile widened as if sensing a challenge, and he winked. “I’d be willing to bet fifty bucks that I can show you a better time tonight than your boyfriend ever could.”

Oddly enough, it was Jo who came to my rescue. She was making yet another circuit through the crowd with a tray of beer and shot glasses balanced on one hand, and raced over as fast as she could, pushing everyone in her path to one side or the other. “Back. Off,” she snapped, roughly grabbing the man’s arm and pulling him away from me, giving me the personal space I’d been craving the whole night.

“Sorry, sorry.” He threw his hands up. “I didn’t know she was taken.”

Jo shook her head and leaned toward Dean, whispering something harsh and angry at him. I could only imagine what she was saying, _“This is a wake for her mother, dumbass. Have some respect.”_

His jaw dropped and he started to stammer out an apology, his flirty demeanour erased in an instant. “Look, I didn’t know…”

“It’s fine,” I mumbled, not caring if he could hear me over the crowd. “Most people here didn’t know Mom and don’t know me.”

“My mom…she’s dead too,” the young man awkwardly said, staring down at the floorboards between his feet. “I was only four when it happened, but I remember how it happened. Like it was yesterday. I miss her...I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Uh, thanks.” Oddly enough, his was the most heartfelt out of the condolences I’d received that night. He might not have known Mom, and he sure as hell didn’t know me, but he understood and sometimes that's all that counts.

He smiled then, a cocky smirk, as if trying to cover up the fact that he’d just been emotionally vulnerable with me. “I’m Dean. That’s my brother Sammy.” I looked in the direction that his finger pointed; Sammy was almost a head taller than the flirty brunette who’d pressed herself up again him, obviously copping a feel. “Looks like he’s gonna be gettin’ some tonight!”

I cleared my throat and tried to push past him, tried to make my way to the door, but there were too many bodies in the way. I hadn’t even taken three steps before a well-meaning, and exceedingly drunk, Hunter a few years Ellen’s senior tried to pull me into a hug. “Your mama…”

Without thinking, I threw a punch at him, at his ugly, scarred face. I hated him, I hated everyone in the room for using my mother’s death as an excuse to get drunk and laid, and most of all, I hated myself.

Someone grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back before my closed fist could land. “Sorry, Shawn.” I heard Dean’s voice apologizing for me from a distance; black spots were floating in front of my eyes and my breathing went shallow and too rapid.  He practically carried me through the crowd, one arm looped around my waist as if we were _together_. “Just breathe through it, kid,” he muttered.

As soon as we were outside, and past the few Hunters who had taken their alcohol of choice out under the stars, I elbowed Dean in the ribs and stumbled away from him. “Too many people,” I gasped, part confession and part accusation, as if I could blame him for something, anything.

“Keep breathing. Find something to match your breathing to,” he suggested. I looked up at him; I’d fallen to my knees and hadn’t even realized it. “Sam gets panic attacks too.” Dean shrugged, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Sometimes he listens to my heartbeat and matches his breaths to it.”

I barely had the chance to nod before he’d pulled me into his arms, resting my head against his chest. He was humming a song, something by The Beatles, I think. We stood there for long minutes, under the ever-moving stars, swaying back and forth in the warm breeze. Dean didn’t let me go until I’d calmed all the way down.

“You feel better?”

Without thinking, I kissed him hard on the lips, letting the bottle of beer I’d held onto this whole time drop to the ground. I knew I was drunk, and that I’d probably regret this in the morning, but I didn’t care. He’d made me feel better just by holding me.

“Wait, wait.” Dean put his hands on my upper arms, pushed me back slightly. “Do you really want this?”

“Yeah. I do,” I confirmed, tugging him back toward me and sealing my lips to his. One arm went around my waist, hand settling on my lower back, which the other cradled my head. He was gentle, but that wasn’t what I needed. I wanted pain. I needed to hurt to remember that I’m the one that’s alive, and Mom’s the one who died.

We ended up in the back of his car, a midnight black 1967 Chevrolet Impala that was fine as hell. My memory of that night isn’t very clear. I remember the curve of his back under my hands, the slight guilt in his eyes as he kissed away the tears I finally let myself cry. He fell asleep in my arms, after we’d gotten dressed and climbed onto the hood of his car.

As the stars wheeled above us, silent, cold, and distant, I whispered my secrets to him, to God, to anyone who was listening. Dean was asleep; I could pretend that he’d heard me and maybe that would help. Maybe it would help glue back together the pieces of my broken soul.

“It’s my fault Mom died,” I began, my voice a barely audible mumble. “If I’d been with her, if I’d helped her in that hunt, then she’d still be here and we would have never met. You see, we were after a spectre that was possessing people and making them kill the person they hated most. I got possessed because I’m so damn stupid and I didn’t listen to what Mom told me. I went out to get a drink, to try out my newest fake I.D., and the next thing I remember is waking up in the emergency room.”

I laughed then, to try to stem the tide of tears that threatened to choke out my words. “The spectre made me try to kill the one being I hate most in the world…myself. Funny that being possessed is what gave me the guts to finally go through with it, even if I didn’t succeed. There’s always next time.” I sighed up at the stars. “I hope Mom isn’t too disappointed. I remember the fear in her eyes when she first saw me in the hospital... I think she finally figured it out, finally put all the pieces together- the scars on my arms that didn’t have an explanation and why I could barely drag myself out of bed on my bad days.

But she had to go finish the case before anyone else died. Mom told me that we’d talk when she got back…but she never did. The nurse brought a couple of police officers inside my room and they told me…told me that Mom had been killed by _something_. They didn’t know what had done it, but they were looking for leads…Mom had put Ellen’s name down as our next of kin, and she was there within the next day to get me. And now here I am. I still want to die, you know.” I could feel my lips twisting into a distorted sort of smile, as if I was disgusted that I had gotten so low. Yet I wasn’t. It was the sad norm for me, that death was the only way out of this that I could see.

“I want nothing more than to be at peace. I can hardly feel anything anymore. I should be sad, angry, heart-broken, anything. But here I am. Empty. I just _want to die_.”

That was when the last thing in the world that I expected happened- Dean sat up, tugging his body out of my arms and twisting to look at me with what I guessed was judgement, at the very least, and disgust.

“Oh, God, Dean I didn’t know…” I jumped off the hood of the Impala, poised to run away either into the relative safety of the Roadhouse or down the road, away from everyone.

He continued to stare at me, eyes round with surprise, and shockingly enough, understanding. Far from what I’d feared I would see. I forced myself to meet his gaze.

“Well, now you know what I’m really like.” I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shrugged. “Go ahead and leave. The sex was just a one-time thing, so no hard feelings, okay?” Turning away, I braced myself for a shout of _“Freak”_ , like one of the boys at my last highschool had called me when he saw the scars crisscrossing my forearms. “ _Try harder next time…”_

“Please listen to me, babe. I know you’ve probably heard this before, but I understand.” He spoke quickly, his words almost tripping over each other as if he didn’t get them out immediately they’d stay within him forever.

“I’ve been a Hunter since I was four. My mom died in a house fire, and Dad set out after the _thing_ that killed her. I never had a normal childhood; it was always me, Sammy, and Dad. Then Sam left me to go to college, turned his back on me as Dad yelled at him to never come back. I wanted to understand that he had to leave, that our life was killing him. I was so empty after he left. My whole life had revolved around taking care of _Sammy_ , making breakfast and lunch and supper for _Sammy_ , tucking _Sammy_ into bed, and suddenly he wasn’t there. He was gone; he didn’t try to contact me for months.”

Dean drew a great shuddering breath into his lungs, gaze directed at the stars reflected on the hood of his car. “I didn’t have anything to live for. Dad was there, sure, but he’d never been one for affection or talking to me about anything that didn't deal with tracking down the demon that killed Mom. I started to get reckless. I didn’t care if I made it out of hunts alive, and I almost got killed trying to take down a skinwalker. I remember Dad yelling at me, asking me _why_ over and over again. Some part of him must have realized that I’d tried to kill myself. He sent me to Stanford as soon as I was healed enough to travel, to check on Sammy. I remembered what I had to live for, how much I’d hurt Sam if I killed myself. He’d end up blaming himself and I couldn’t do that to him…”

He slid off the car slowly, approaching me like I would a stray cat. Slow and steady, making no sudden movements. “Can I hug you?” he asked softly.

“Sure,” I replied stiffly, tracing the scars on my right forearm through the fabric of my jacket. He closed the distance between us in two steps, wrapping his arms tight around me.

“You’re going to be alright,” Dean promised, gently pressing my hand against his chest so I could feel his heartbeat under my palm. “It won’t be an easy road, but you are going to get better. See, I got my brother back and I thought that I’d never see him again. You’re going to find someone to love, someone who will love _you_ with all their heart.”

“But…” I tried to interrupt. He put an index finger on my lips and smiled, his eyes bright with unshed tears and _hope_.

“You have so much to live for, sweetheart. You have a whole life ahead of you, full of saving people’s lives. Imagine all of the people who wouldn’t be here if not for what you and your mom did. Think about the sunrises and sunsets you’ll miss out on, all of the starry nights and thunderstorms and hot summer days and fireworks in the sky. Remember the people who care about you. Ellen, Jo, _me_ , Sammy, if you’ll give him a chance. He’s like a big ol’ puppy dog… Please don’t kill yourself. Give life another chance. You won’t regret it. I didn’t.”

“Okay. I’ll try.” I was reluctant to make any pledge I wasn’t going to keep; words are important, sometimes the most vital things in our lives, and I didn’t want to lie.

“Promise?”

“I promise to try.”

“When you get in a bad place, just think about the things I told you about, what you’ll miss and who will miss you. Whose lives you’ve changed and who wouldn’t be the same without _you_.” Dean released me slowly, almost reluctantly, his arms falling to his sides. “Wait a sec. I got something for you.” He raced back to the Impala, rifled around in the back seat for something. “Here you go!”

I eyed the piece of paper. “Your number?”

“In case you ever want to talk. I won’t always be able to answer if I’m on a case, but I’ll get back to you soon as I can. Or if you ever need help on a case. Me and Sam can swing by and assist in whatever way you need.”

“Speaking of the Devil…”

Dean’s younger brother was stumbling toward the Impala, clearly inebriated. “Y’ready to leave, De’?” He didn’t see me for a couple seconds, and then his jaw dropped. “I can’t b’lieve you, Dean. This’s a wake an’ you picked up a chick. D’nt you have any r’spect?”

“C’mon, Sammy, ya go to live a little! Have a bit of fun. Lighten up.” He winked at me. “I guess we’d better be going then. Got a case in Oregon to take care of. Call me anytime, babe. I’ll be back in the area at some point, I’m sure.”

“Alright. I will. Promise.” I smiled, a shaky, tremulous approximation of a grin, but it was close enough to the real thing to convey what I meant, what I felt, or so I hoped. All of the things I couldn’t say aloud. _Thanks, Dean. Thanks for helping me. For letting me know that there’s a bit of light at the end of this tunnel. I needed this. You saved my life. Thank you. I’m going to try to make it._ “See you around, Dean, Sam.”

“See ya!” They both waved as Dean backed the car away from the Roadhouse. I clutched the piece of paper with Dean’s handwriting to my chest. I had to hold onto this. Hold onto the fact that if he could make it, I could. I could do this.    

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a moment, please let me know what you think: good, bad, okay, whatever. I love constructive criticism. 
> 
> And if any of you lovely readers were wondering, yes, most of the reader's experiences were based off my own thoughts, feelings, and actions. If you have any questions or need to vent, feel fee to PM me. You can also find me on saveanimpala.tumblr.com.


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